Part 16

His parents were willing he should climb even the tallest trees; and they were quite proud at the gymnasium to see him run lightly up the long ladders, and across the open framework, near the roof. You might say that this also was a dangerous thing to do. That is true, but Carl’s skill in this art, and his long practice made it next to impossible that he should fall. But he would go up places where no amount of skill or practice could save him in case of accident. He would climb a dead tree, for instance, though he knew a rotten branch might break at any moment, and throw him headlong to the ground, or he would go up a tottering wall. It is _courageous_ to put yourself into _possible_ danger, for the sake of accomplishing some good. No boy can learn to ride, or climb, or swim without incurring possible danger. But that is very different from putting yourself into _almost certain_ danger just for the sake of doing a thing when no good is to come of it. When people act in this way they are fool-hardy.

And Carl was not content to be courageous, which is a very good thing, but he must also be fool-hardy, which is a very silly thing.

One day he set out alone for a long walk down the river. It was a holiday, so he had plenty of time before him. He walked a very long time before he sat down to rest; and then he looked around him to see where he was. The place was strange to him, so that he knew he must be a long way from home. There was no house near, and no person was in sight. But Carl was not afraid, for he was used to rambling about the woods, and he felt sure there was nothing there to hurt him.

There was nothing to hurt him but his own foolish self.

Close by him was a beautiful hill, down which fell a little cascade. It was not very high, but rose up almost perpendicularly from where he was sitting. He felt a great desire to see what was on the other side of that hill. He could easily have gone around it, on the inland side, but that did not suit his taste. He remembered that he had given his promise to his mother, that morning, that he would not do one fool-hardy thing that day. But was this fool-hardy? The hill was very steep, but there were trees and saplings to help him in the ascent. He did not hesitate long. He started up the hill. If he had continued up the side he began upon, it would not have been so very bad, for if his foot had slipped he might have had his fall so broken by bushes and tufts of grass that there would have been a possibility of his reaching the ground without any great injury. But he soon found that the side of the hill by the river was even more steep than the one he was on, and he swung himself round by the tree branches until he reached that side. Up he went, digging hands and heels into the spongy turf, and catching hold of the saplings, and bushes that came in his way. If his foot had slipped then, he would have gone plump into the river.

But his foot did not slip, and he reached the top in safety. A little ravine lay at his feet, and on the other side of this, close to the river bank, there stood a stone tower. Eager to examine this curiosity, Carl partly ran, and partly slid down the hill, which was much less steep on that side, and ran across the ravine to the base of the tower.

It was all that was left of an old castle. Many of the stones had fallen from the top, and some from its sides, and it was a very shaky-looking affair. But Carl did not care for this. The walls were very thick, and he felt sure the large broken pinnacle at the top was broad enough for him to stand on. It would be great fun to stand on that! He forgot his promise to his mother, and began at once to climb; sometimes lifting himself up by taking hold of projecting stones, and sometimes working up by putting feet and hands into crevices in the wall.

He was not half way up when he made a mis-step. He felt that he was slipping, and clutched frantically at a projecting stone. He grasped the stone with both hands, but alas! it shook with the grasp, and Carl knew that it was giving way. He hung thus but a moment, though it seemed a long period to him, for he had time to think of his home, and his father, and mother, and little sisters, and that he should never see them more. He wondered if they would ever know what had become of him, and would learn, that he did die, finally, in a fool-hardy adventure, as everybody had always said he would. Then the stone rolled out from the wall, and out of Carl’s hands, falling some thirty feet, and plunging into the water with great force. And down went Carl, right in its track.

This part of the river was the home of a kind, and beautiful Water-Lady, called by the Germans a Nix. Looking up through the water (for she spent nearly all her time at the bottom of the river) she saw Carl climb the hill, and was so much pleased with his skilful climbing and his bright face, that when he reached the top of the hill, she floated up to the surface of the water to see what he would do next. She watched him down the hill, and across the ravine; but, when he stood looking up to the top of the ruined tower, the Nix guessed that he was thinking of climbing it; and she determined to draw him away from this dangerous place.

The Nixies play upon the harp lovely music that mortals may not hope to play. So the Nix went down to the bottom of the river and soon reappeared on the surface with a graceful harp, made of beaten gold. She left the river, and, standing among the water plants at the foot of the hill Carl had climbed, she played soft, sweet strains of fairy music on her harp. In this way she thought she would beguile him from the dangerous tower back to the hill; and, when he was safe, she would disappear; for the Nixies do not care to be seen of mortals.

But Carl was so absorbed in his foolish project of scaling the wall, and the music was so very soft, he did not heed it. Twice in his ascent he paused to listen to what he imagined to be lovely strains of music. This was when the Nix, on peeping around the curve made by the hill, saw that the boy had already started on his perilous journey, and played louder to call him back. But Carl concluded he was mistaken, and that the melodious sound was the wind rustling among the vines.

When the Nix heard the plunge into the water she supposed that all was over; and, standing her harp against a rock, she leaned her head upon her hand, and thought sorrowfully of the bright boy who had come to such a sudden end through his own folly.

But Carl was not dead. The force with which he struck the water sent him far down into its depths, and rendered him unconscious. So that when he rose to the surface again he lay on the water without motion, and, apparently, without life. In this condition he floated to the spot where the Nix was standing. For a moment she gazed at him sorrowfully, and then her face suddenly brightened. For she saw that the boy was still living, though he was insensible to everything around him.

Quickly she seized her harp, and played the liveliest, merriest music that the fairies know. The notes seemed to be dancing, and jumping, and rolling and tumbling over each other in great glee, and yet it was true music, and perfect harmony. So penetrating and so stirring was it that it reached Carl’s benumbed senses. He opened his eyes, and seeing a beautiful lady in white robes, holding a golden harp, and playing this lovely music, no wonder he thought he was in heaven.

This delusion lasted but a moment, however, for he soon felt himself sinking again into the cold water. But he was able now to make an effort to save himself, and he grasped tightly the long reed stems that lay near him. This prevented his sinking far into the water, and the Nix left her harp, and gliding swiftly into the river, supported Carl so that his head and arms were out of the water, and he could make some attempt to swim. And, in this way, the Nix helped him to the bank.

He was so weak from fright, and the long time he had been in the water, that he could not even speak to the Nix to thank her for saving his life. He could only look his gratitude as he lay panting on the grass. But as soon as he revived a little and had uttered the first word to the lady she faded from his sight, and he only saw a wreath of white mist gliding over the reeds.

Carl sprang up in astonishment. The waves parted as if some one had gently sunk into them, and he thought that he saw, for a moment a gleam of bright hair. Not till then did he know that the beautiful lady, who had preserved him, was a Nix.

Close to his side stood her harp. The Nix had forgotten it! Here was a prize! There was gold enough in it for a moderate fortune, and Carl was poor. Carl had always had a great desire to be a musician, and this gold would send him to Berlin or Vienna to study at a Conservatory of Music; and do a great deal besides for his father, and mother, and sisters. But the boy was honest, and he knew he had no right to take away the property of another, even if the owner was only a Nix. But he thought he might be allowed to play upon it. He had learned to play two or three tunes on the harp. No sooner did he touch the strings, however, than he found he did not play his own music at all, but the magical music the Nix played. Carl was in ecstacies, and his fingers flew over the strings, wandering through one fairy melody after another until his arm ached, and he saw that the sun had set, and twilight was coming on.

He must go home. But now he felt a stronger desire than ever to take the harp with him. How he would astonish all the town with his music! He would give concerts in the great hall, and, perhaps, the fame of his wonderful music would reach the king and queen, and they would come to hear him. But all this did not make it right for him to take what was not his own; and it would be a poor return to make the Nix for her kindness to steal her harp.

But, perhaps she left it there, intending he should have it! How was he to know? He called to her to tell him if the harp was his, but there was no reply.

He resolved he would leave it where it stood, but would return to the spot the next day. If the harp was still there he might fairly conclude that the Nix intended he should have it.

He left the harp reluctantly, and started on his homeward journey, but had not gone far before he had to lie down and rest. His head ached, and all his limbs felt tired and sore. It is probable he would have been obliged to spend the night in the forest, if some marketmen had not come along the road, and taken him home in their wagon.

He related his adventures to the family, and the next day his father accompanied him to the old tower. Everything was exactly as Carl had described it. The place whence the stone had fallen out of the wall was plainly to be seen, with the freshly loosened mortar strewn about. But there was no golden harp. And there was neither sight nor sound of Nix or Fairy Music.

From that day Carl lost all desire for fool-hardy adventures. His love of music grew stronger and stronger, and his parents had some trouble in getting him to attend properly to his other studies. He said the Nix had left her harp with him for a short time that he might take from it an inspiration of melody that would be his forever; and that she had then taken the harp away lest he should learn too much, and play such music as only the angels could understand.

All the beautiful things he saw; all the sweet sounds of Nature; all the noble thoughts that God put into his heart; he wrote down in strains of music that were sung and played in all parts of the world, and that charmed everybody who heard them.

Carl was famous. But men declared that he had never seen the Nix, or played upon the golden harp, but had dreamed the whole story when he was in a half-conscious state on the bank, after he had managed to crawl out of the river by the help of the reeds. This narrow escape from death, they said, had given a more serious turn to his mind, and from thenceforth he had given up boyish frolics, and his thoughts had naturally turned to music—the art he best loved.

But Carl, himself, always believed that the Nix had bestowed upon him the wonderful gift of melody he possessed.

WATER AND MILK FROM PLANTS.

There are upon the earth great sandy tracts, where there are no springs, or brooks. When the rain falls, which it seldom does in these places, the parched earth drinks it all up, and no pools are formed at which the thirsty traveler can get a drink. And yet men are often obliged to travel over these plains to reach some place where their business calls them. They go in companies, and take with them provisions, and a large supply of water. This last they regard as the most precious of their possessions, and use it as sparingly as possible. But, notwithstanding all their care, it often gives out before they reach the end of their journey. And then, too, they frequently lose their way, and wander about over the hot sand, under a burning sun until they become sick and weak from thirst, and they sometimes die for want of water. This would happen much oftener than it does were it not for a little plant that a kind Providence has caused to grow in these desolate sandy plains.

The picture of this plant, which we show you, was taken from one that grew in a garden, but it was transplanted there from the desert, where it is found in great abundance.

This plant grows two or three feet high, and, at the end of each one of its broad dark green leaves, there is a strong tendril that holds up a cup of the same substance as the leaves. During the night the dew on the plant fills the cup with pure, clear, sweet water, which slowly evaporates during the day. You can easily imagine how glad the thirsty traveler is to find these cups of fresh water, all filled ready for his drinking.

The name of this plant is _Nepenthes_, but we generally call it the Pitcher Plant.

In other parts of the earth there are great marshy forests, where the pools of water are stagnant and impure; and, if people drink from them, they are made sick. A man might wander through these woods for days, and not find a drop of pure, wholesome water, were it not for the _Sarracenia_, or Amphora-plant.

In this the leaves are the cups. They have narrow necks, and flaring tips, from which it is easy to drink the clear water contained in the wonderful leaves. The full grown leaves of the larger species hold a pint of water.

We have this same plant, on a much smaller scale, in our own marshes. It grows in damp, shaded places, and I advise you to look for it in your summer rambles, for it is a very singular plant. The leaves of our _Sarracenia_ are so small they will scarcely hold a gill of water. But we have plenty of cool springs, and limpid brooks in our country, and do not need the large cups of water the Amphora-plant offers to its visitors in South America.

The common name of our Sarracenia is Pitcher-plant; but, as you can see by comparing the two, it is very unlike the Pitcher-plant of the Eastern deserts.

But then you know pitchers are of a great many different shapes, and sizes, and are only alike in being able to hold water.

But the most wonderful of all the plants that give men water to drink is a tree that is said to have been found some years ago in one of the Canary islands. It was seen at different times by different travelers, and they all told the same story about it. The leaves grew thickly on its spreading branches, and, from each leaf the drops fell so rapidly that all together they formed a steady shower of rain.

It was called the Weeping Tree.

The water fell so copiously that it formed a pond at the foot of the tree, and the people who lived in the neighborhood got from it all the water they used. This is certainly a very wonderful tree if the accounts of it are true.

There is a plant of the Arum family, with broad, heart-shaped leaves that constantly throws from the end of each leaf a drop of water. These drops sometimes follow each other so fast that there is a little jet of water formed in the air above the leaf.

But water is not the only drink that we get from trees. In Central and South America grows the cow-tree, which gives milk! This milk can be obtained during all seasons, but is much more abundant in the spring. If a deep cut is made with a hatchet in the bark of the tree a stream of milk gushes out, and flows freely. It yields the greatest quantity at sunrise, and, at that hour, in the places where this tree grows, men and women come from all directions to the tree nearest their homes to get a supply of this refreshing drink. They bring pitchers with them, and take some of the milk back to their families.

This white fluid is like cow’s milk in appearance, but it is not equally good from all trees. But it is just so with the cows, you know. Some of these animals give rich yellow milk, and some of the milk is blue-white, and thin. Some give a great deal, and others very little. And some cow trees yield richer and yellower milk than others, but it is all sweet and wholesome, and of a pleasant smell. It tastes, in fact, almost exactly like cow’s milk. Like that it is used for making custards, puddings, &c.; and, when boiled, behaves just as ordinary milk does, and will run over the vessel in a minute, if not watched. When allowed to stand for a time cream forms on the top. This is taken off, and made into a sort of cheese, not very different from our cheeses.

This is a very nice kind of cow to have—this vegetable cow—as it requires no feeding, or care, and, when it dies others spring up in its place. It seems a pity that we cannot have these economical cows in our country.

We have plants here that yield a milky juice when the stalks are broken or cut, but you must not be beguiled into drinking any of these milky saps, for they are very disagreeable in taste, being sharp and bitter; and many of them are poisonous.

THE JOLLY CABORDMEN.

There was once a nation of remarkably genial people who knew no evil and would not have practiced it if they had known it. They were very industrious, and their days were so busy and they took such an interest in their work, that they had no time to be wicked or sad.

They were called Cabordmen, for what reason I know not, for the name of their country was not Cabord. Their principal industry was tilling the soil, and they generally worked with a will.

When they first settled their country the land was poor and very little grew upon it that was worth having. But, year by year, the soil became richer, on account of the care they took of it, and all sorts of valuable grains, and grasses, and vegetables, and fruits were grown, and these Cabordmen had all and more than they wanted of the good things of the earth.

So they waxed rich and happy, and there never was a time when a man was hungry that he did not have some good things to eat, and it very seldom happened that any of these hard workers found himself without an appetite at meal-time.

For people who work hard and well are very apt to have all they want and to want all they have. If they do not want it to use themselves, they want it to sell or give away.

So, in time the people of this country became not only very comfortable but very wealthy.

They had great barns full of grain and vast stores of everything needful for their use and livelihood, and as they often sold their surplus productions to other nations, they had great vaults full of money.

But they all worked away every day, just the same as they used to, because they were so accustomed to toil, that they would not have been happy without work.

So, of course, they became richer and richer, and jollier and jollier until at last they became so prosperous and happy that other nations began to take notice of them. It was rather unusual, in those days to see a whole nation so jolly.

The people in the adjoining countries were by no means so happy and prosperous. Most of them were much better pleased with fighting than with work, and it, therefore, often happened that they were hungry when there was very little to eat.

For war is a very bad thing for crops. It is sometimes as injurious as a long drought. For somebody must plant and hoe or there will be little to eat in a land, and if the people spend most of their time in warfare there cannot be much agricultural work going on.

But these outside people, especially those who lived in the land of Voldor to the north of the country of the Cabordmen, had an idea that it was a great deal easier to make war and capture supplies than to raise crops themselves.

This is why, after having carefully watched the Cabordmen for some years, and noting their great possessions, they resolved to make war upon these industrious and jolly people.

So they gathered together an army, which was an easy thing for them to do, and invaded the country of the Cabordmen.

Our jolly friends were much astounded and distressed when the great army of the Voldorites marched over their borders.

Now the poor Cabordmen knew not what to do. They were not soldiers, and, indeed, there was not so much as a single sword or spear or shield in the whole country. They never had gone to war and they were not prepared for it, nor did they know anything about fighting. It was altogether a new business to them.

They gathered together and held hasty consultations, but they could decide upon no plan to repel the invaders. What could they—a nation of simple, jolly husbandmen—do against a great army of well armed and practised warriors?

There seemed to be nothing left for them but to surrender at once, and let the Voldorites help themselves to whatever they wanted. In this case the poor Cabordmen and their families would not only be stripped of every thing, but it was very likely indeed that the invaders would carry off many of them as prisoners, and take them to Voldor, and make them cultivate the land of their captors.

This was terrible to think of. But they could devise no plan to escape this dreadful fate.

The Voldorites were now encamped upon the northern edge of their territory, which was yet uninhabited and barren. The enemy so far had met with none of the Cabordmen, but many of the latter had seen the great army from afar without having made themselves visible.

Night came on while the people were in this fearful condition of fear and suspense. Less than a day’s march would bring the fierce enemy into their midst. No one went to bed, for who could sleep at such a time? No fires or lamps were lighted. They all gathered together by the faint light of the new moon, and bewailed their sad condition.

There was only one person among them who seemed to have retained his courage and thoughtfulness. This was a young man named Adar Gan Ip.

He was named Adar because he was a painter. Ip was his family name, and he was called Gan after his grandfather. He was the only painter in the whole nation, and he had learned his trade in a neighboring country, where he had been to sell grain.